


The Angst collection

by Gayforswimmerz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, ansgt, blood warning, more to be added later - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayforswimmerz/pseuds/Gayforswimmerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lets explore the angst that is in Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Angst collection

No one was coming for him.

He knew that much even with his pounding headache from the multiple blows that blocked the flowing thoughts through his head. He would probably die here alone. No pack was coming-hell they probably didn’t even notice that he was gone, why would they? For the last couple of months all they did was gently ignore him: it started off slow, just random events that none of them told him about until that slowly snow balled into them completely blanking him in the hallway, not even answering his calls or texts to question their behaviour.

  
Two could play at that game. Stiles stopped talking to them as well; severing his verbal connections with the pack that thought they no longer needed him. But just because he stopped talking to them didn’t mean that he didn’t miss them, nor did it mean that he stopped helping. The pack didn’t question labelled and bookmarked pages stuck underneath their windscreen wipers nor did they think twice about all the other things Stiles helped them with, he was just a shadow in the night that they concsiously overlooked. 

  
The pack had nothing to do with him anymore; they knew that they burned the bridges leading to the weak human, although they seemed to make an acception the stepping stones the human had built back up in the name of research and aid.

  
But the hunters didn’t.

  
Stiles would call the whole event of muscled men dragging him from his bed in the dead of night as _inconvenient._   He had important plans to actually relax for once since the last supernatural baddie had actually just up and left (he helped mostly, sneaking clues to Scott instructing him on what to do) with no casualties.  
The hunters took what they called ‘the weakest pack member’. They never stopped from explaining how stupid his Alpha was by leaving him alone. Stiles had calmly told them that he didn’t have an Alpha, he wasn’t pack and that they were wasting their time because- damn, no one will come for him.

  
So as he hung loose and broken in his chains that were cutting deep into his wrists due to his recent struggling from the torture, his head bowing in fatigue and pain, Stiles finally gave up.

He could only watch as his blood bubbled past the various wounds that littered his chest, either being absorbed by his shredded t-shirt turning it a horrid rustic colour, or dribbling down his body to join the ever growing pool that he was kneeling in.  
He never thought he would welcome death with open arms, but there he was: with nothing to lose and with no one even noticing he was gone.  
He could feel the energy leak out of him with a choked sob passing his bruised and cut lips. He could smell the metallic scent of his life leaving his body, taste the pain in his mouth as his organs protested from their abuse.

He could hear feet running through the puddled tunnels, growls echoing through the maze of corridors he was dragged kicking and screaming down. He heard whimpers and chokes of pain that nearly matched his own.  
He shuddered as he felt a cough rack his body, blood gargling past his lips and falling to the floor with a sickening, thick splash.

  
This was it.

  
With a strained whimper, Stiles finally fell limp and the weak drum of his heart gave its last beat.

  
He didn’t hear the heartbroken roar ripping through the prison walls, shaking them with nothing more than the physical embodiment of pain and loss. He didn’t witness the claws scratching at the steel door with such ferocity that the owner had to be ripped away in fear of damaging himself.  
He wouldn’t see the pack- his pack- enter the cell and completely break at the sight of his body hanging limply, blood still trickling from his wounds and the cold not yet settling in his bones. He wouldn’t see Derek rip the chains from their very foundations deep within the concrete wall that they were buried in.  
He would never feel the way the werewolf cradled his body ever so gently, his head resting in Derek’s lap as the werewolf’s blood stained hands lightly traced his cute upturned nose and his beautiful whisky eyes that were now forever unseeing, clouded with such pain that it made the pack whimper with only a glance.  
He would have been glad to not feel the salt drops of sorrow and regret mix with the blood on his face as Derek refused to leave him, refused for anyone to touch him, growling between babbled apologies that would forever go unheard.

 


End file.
